


Twelve Years... and Counting...

by InvisbleDragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol as Comfort Mechanism, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forehead Kisses, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Real Events, Major Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Post-Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Touch-Starved, Touching, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 10:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20080720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvisbleDragon/pseuds/InvisbleDragon
Summary: It's been a long twelve years in Azkaban... or what happens when someone who is severely touch starved gets a glimpse of friendly touch, only to get it ripped away from him and how do you deal with that, especially as the only place you have to go is the place of your childhood.((Inspired by my mental breakdown))





	Twelve Years... and Counting...

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy fic. Please for the love of anything and everything; MIND THE TAGS.

Sirius shivered in the cool night air rushing past him. Whatever was he to do now? Wherever was he to go? Who was there still that he could call friend, brother… home? 

Remus sure, might still be alive; but he was back at Hogwarts. He didn’t have anyone with him, no. There was no one for him to turn to. 

Idly, his mind drifted to the clouds beneath him, looking so soft and comforting; tempting him to jump down onto them like the pillows he and Reggie had once so very long ago piled high before he’d gone off to school. Before they’d drifted apart. 

Before he’d gone to Azkaban, and Regulus had… died. 

Sometimes, Sirius wondered if Azkaban has changed him more than he already knew he was. 

Surely no one could go for so long feeling the despairing grip of misery and utter torment. Screams of the damned echoing down those damp eerie hallways. 

He’d screamed too. 

Oh he’d screamed. 

Screamed for the dead. 

Screamed for the living. 

He’d screamed every full moon.

And now… twelve years later…

He still felt like he was screaming. 

He certainly heard enough of it, he mused; as he stood in front of the hated portrait of his blasted mother, her hateful sneer scowling down at him. 

Even painted onto canvas she made him feel as small and useless as he had been ten, about to head off to Hogwarts. Eleven and home for the Yule Holidays. Twelve and rebellious. 

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen; when she despaired over his utter lack of attraction toward the proper birds set right for a son of the House of Black. 

Sixteen when she found the Muggle rags, and cast curses at him until he was crawling, weak and trembling into the Floo and crying as he tumbled from it, ever so graceless; like an angel from its pedestal, a demon cursed to burn in the ashes into the haven of the Potters.  Sirius clicked his fingers and ordered Kreacher to get him the firewhiskey as he continued on his path through the home of his innocent childhood self.

Kreacher scowled at him, even as he did as he was told to do, muttering foul epithets as he trod heavily up the stairs and into his childhood bedroom, staring at the onslaught of red and gold. 

Gryffindor. 

Bright memories of a happier time, memories filling him with warmth, now felt shadowed and dull. Where there once was joy and brotherhood; there was now the bitter sting of betrayal and torn bonds, never to be mended the same again.

Salt on his tongue as he tumbled into his bed, sheets stiff from the charms that kept it neat over the years gone past. He buried his face beneath his pillow and grasped aimlessly, hopefully for the photo he kept there. 

Youthful faces, skin so smooth; free of the turmoil that awaited them after graduation. Peter, not yet the betrayer. James, and Lily too; not yet dead, mere ghosts of the past haunting him. Remus, still… still Remus. Young and ungreyed. Unstooped by the horrors. Eyes still bright with mischief, not filled with the knowledge of their band of brothers, dead, murdered, slain. 

No curse of his mother’s; no amount of proper discipline, nothing amounted to the pain he felt. The years of Azkaban were long and hard and bitter. And now, now that he was a free man; even though he was free, he never felt more chained and trapped than he did now. 

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nothing left except the weary eyes of the one he had once called brother. Nothing left except the one who cast him aside. No letter. No visit. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. 

Sirius has begged. Oh, how he had begged. 

He cried now again, hot tears flooding his face and spilling over. Harsh sobs catching in his chest, unable to breathe. 

He’d been so close. So close to Remus. He’d had him in his arms. 

It had felt so good. So right. Just like then. 

And then… and then…

Away again. Split apart. 

**ALONE**

Sirius uncapped the bottle of Firewhiskey and toasted to the ghosts of the past, to their friendship, to the warmth of brotherhood that had kept him warm even as he was locked away inside the chilling and dready house of horrors and whatever miserable ideas his mother had concocted up whilst he was away at Hogwarts for the year.

It hurt. More than any agony Sirius had ever known, the physical pain of being alone had never before felt so terrible. The warmth of the Firewhiskey burning in his chest did little to warm him, and so he drank. More and more.

Twelve years had been long indeed, but it was nothing compared to the future that awaited him.

Until his eyes blurred, and the bottle emptied. Until he was staring at the top of the canopy weeping. In a sudden fit of rage, he sat up and threw the bottle at the door before collapsing and curling up into the fetal position, pulling his blankets over him, and holding a pillow clos. 

He was so, so alone.

Until he was sure he was dreaming, or better joining Lils and Prongs, as he felt a warm hand moving over his head, scratching gently into the snagged hair. Until he felt lips, press themselves into his forehead breathing out a promise that burned. Until he felt more settled inside his body, less like it was an ill-fitting outfit, and more like it was his and he belonged. 

Sirius closed his eyes…

...and slept.


End file.
